Progressive
by RangerGirl
Summary: House/Wilson, post 4x12 "Don't Ever Change". Jealousy doesn't suit House.


**Title:** Progressive (One Thing That Stays Mine)  
**Fandom:** House M.D.  
**Rating:** R  
**Pairing:** House/Wilson (Wilson/Amber, House/Cuddy)  
**Words:** 5,385  
**Summary:** Post "Don't Ever Change". Jealousy doesn't suit House.  
**Disclaimer:** Not my sandbox.

Like most change for the worse, it starts out small.

Wilson stops coming to the cafeteria for lunch. At first House puts it down to fluke, but after three consecutive days of buying his own food he goes to Wilson's office to find it empty, his coat gone. Cuddy's office is next.

"Where the hell's Wilson?"

Cuddy doesn't look up from her paperwork.

"Don't know. Come in, by the way."

"He's not in his office."

"Then I guess he's at lunch."

"His coat is gone."

"Then I guess he's out to lunch."

"When does Wilson ever go out to lunch?"

"House, don't ask me, I thought you were the one with the tracking device on him."

"That would be intrusive. I'm merely concerned."

Cuddy rolls her eyes and stands up, carrying a stack of papers towards the doorway.

"You know, most kids are taught to share. You are both an only child and a jerk, so maybe you never learned, but once in a while you have to put the toy down and give the other children a chance."

"I have no problem with sharing, I have a problem with preternaturally cutthroat children. Which, by the way, I thought we were in agreement on."

"Wilson's a big boy. I told him what I think, it's up to him to decide how to use that information. Unlike some people, I can handle the possibility that I might be wrong."

"Gosh, what an attitude. If only I could be so well adjusted."

"Let it go, House", she warns as she leaves. "You're not losing him."

He stares after her for a while, trying to interpret the words as anything other than hollow.

* * *

There is no doubt in his mind whatsoever that his patient does not have cancer. Only three out of five symptoms match the diagnosis at all and the MRI couldn't have come back much clearer. He pages Wilson for a consult nonetheless.

"What about early onset Alzheimer's?" Kutner suggests. "Would explain the memory loss, the mood changes, the delusional behaviour—"

"You do know that early onset doesn't actually mean _early_, right? It sure as hell doesn't mean thirty one years old."

"Makes more sense than cancer," Kutner retorts.

"Wait, are we still on cancer?" Thirteen asks, bemused. "The MRI is clear."

"Doesn't matter. He needs an excuse to pester Wilson," Foreman explains.

"The MRI is inconclusive."

"House, there's nothing inconclusive about it!" Thirteen exclaims. "There's no tumour in her brain. Can we stop wasting time?"

"Actually, since when do you need an excuse?" Foreman asks, frowning. "Why not just barge in on him like you usually do?"

"Now _that_ would be wasting time," House replies, feigning shock. "What I'm doing is taking precautions."

The phone rings, cutting Thirteen off as she opens her mouth to reply.

"Yeah?"

"This is Doctor Brown," comes the distinctly unfamiliar voice. "Doctor Wilson said you need a consult."

He stares at the receiver for a moment before replacing it, not bothering to reply. Without missing a beat he grabs his cane and strides towards the door, ignoring the array of bemused stares.

"Since when do you pawn my consults off onto Brown?"

Wilson looks up as House throws his door open, frowning.

"I...got busy, figured Brown could handle it."

"You figured."

"Yeah." He crosses his arms over his chest, defensive. "Why, what's the big deal?"

"Where did you go for lunch?" House asks swiftly.

Wilson mouths incoherently for a moment or two, caught off guard.

"Why...Since when do you care where I go for lunch?"

"Date with the better half? And I use the word 'better' in the sense of 'pure evil'."

"I thought we were over this. I thought you'd…you'd reformed, you'd found the noble art of self-sacrifice."

"Your words, not mine. I told you, I don't sacrifice self."

"House," Wilson says, in a placating tone that sets his teeth on edge. "What was I supposed to do, invite you? Bring her along to lunch in the cafeteria?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Right, I'd forgotten how well you deal with change."

House glares at him in silence.

"Look, do you want me to do the consult now?"

"No," House mutters, averting his gaze. "It's not cancer."

Wilson sighs, nodding. Figuring it might not be too late to save face he turns to leave, shooting what he hopes is a flippant glance over his shoulder.

"You owe me lunch tomorrow. Reuben doesn't buy itself."

* * *

The last straw comes when House, more for symbolism's sake than anything, gets hold of the best monster truck tickets available for love or money. He doesn't even try to disguise the inherent guilt trip when he presents them to Wilson, the unspoken "hey, remember the last time you turned these down?", and can't bring himself to feel any hint of surprise when Wilson looks at him apologetically.

"Friday, I can't. I really, really can't."

"Conference? Rectal cancer?"

"Dinner. With Amber."

"So, cancel. Lie."

"I can't cancel on her, not again. Can't do it."

House smiles bitterly, his stomach churning.

"So how does this work between you guys? Is it like a timeshare thing, she gives you back your balls for weekends and public holidays…?"

"I already cancelled a date once this week, I had to work late. I have to go this time."

"Have to? Wow. Now that's romance."

Wilson gives him a look. "I didn't—"

"Most couples make it through at least the first six months before they get to that resentful sense of obligation stage, you guys are way ahead of the game."

"I want to go," Wilson amends, firmly. "Believe it or not, Amber actually makes me happy. Which I know to you probably constitutes the eighth deadly sin, but for some people it's actually a good thing. Healthy."

"Right, because you're the world-class expert on well adjusted. Keep kidding yourself." He can't keep the bitter edge out of his voice.

"This relationship isn't going to fail just because you want it to, House."

"No. It'll fail because you're you."

"Funny, I thought you said it was going to fail because she's you. A proxy, right?"

There are about a hundred things he wants to say then but he's said too much already, Wilson's looking intently at him and he can't remember ever feeling this exposed.

"She's not me," he snaps, his voice more brittle than he'd like.

For a moment, one brief, glorious moment he thinks he sees a flicker of something in Wilson's eyes, some acknowledgement of what he's sure his face is betraying.

"House," Wilson says quietly, unwaveringly. "Is there something you want to say to me?"

His throat clenches; they're standing so close now he can feel Wilson's breath on his face and for a moment he's frozen, they are frozen. He takes a breath, swallowing, yanks a smirk onto his face far too late.

"Wear a rubber."

It's a lame ender by anybody's standards, apropos of nothing, but the need to get out of there is suffocating him, away from Wilson and his familiar voice and his gentle eyes filled with something that looks suddenly, horribly, like pity.

Back in his office he takes three pills on the trot, viciously dismisses every diagnostic suggestion, threatens Kutner with suspension and yells at Foreman for no particular reason. None of it has any effect whatsoever on the haze of dread that's clouding his mind, the awful numbing sense of loss, of something slipping away like sand through his fingers. His patient is dying, and he doesn't care.

Even when his cowed team solve the case (Miller-Fisher syndrome), he feels nothing. He goes home, drinks his way through the remainder of a bottle of Maker's Mark and even as he's drifting, pleasantly numb, he can't escape the pounding echo in his skull, the truth that he is losing Wilson, losinglosinglosing and this is only what he deserves, this is poetic justice.

He wakes up hours later and sees the empty bourbon bottle lying in several jagged pieces on the floor, blood still drying on his hand.

* * *

He stays late in his office the next night, long after everyone else has left he sits in the semi-darkness, tossing his ball half-heartedly against the wall.

"Hey."

He doesn't look up. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Wilson silhouetted in the doorway, briefcase in hand.

"Want to get some dinner?"

House pauses, rotates the ball anti-clockwise between his fingers.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" he asks flatly.

"Uh...no?"

"Amber got other plans?"

"What? She—" Wilson frowns. "Why does it matter? Come on, I'm starving."

House looks at him, pretending to consider.

"Sorry, can't do it."

Wilson blinks. "Right, no, I can see you've got better things to do. In your office. Alone."

House stands abruptly, tossing the ball aside.

"Didn't say I had better plans. Just that I'm not having dinner with you." He hates this, hates what he's become, the petulant edge to his voice and the way he can't ever let anything be easy. But he's never felt less in control and this is all he can do, now, strike pre-emptively, push harder and more viciously before Wilson has the chance.

"What...what's going on here?" Wilson looks somewhere between hurt and bemused, and House wants to grab hold and wipe the innocence off his face because he knows damn well what's going on, has to know what he's doing.

"I'm not into playing second fiddle," he says, pushing past Wilson. "Find another backup plan."

"House—"

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and stops. It's ridiculous the effect it has on him, this small, meaningless touch, knocking the breath out of him for a second as a ringing starts in his ears and he can't look back, can't do anything but keep walking.

* * *

"I don't need to tell you how unreasonable you're being, right?"

Cuddy catches up to him in the halfway the next day and he braces himself for the lecture.

"Probably not. You'll have to narrow it down though, I can be pretty unreasonable a lot of the time."

"Hard to imagine. I talked to Wilson."

"Gotta love locker room talk. So, did you find out who he's asking to the prom?"

She stops him mid-walk, one hand on his chest.

"I said that you weren't losing him. If you carry on like this, you just might prove me wrong."

He looks slowly down at her hand, then back up at her.

"Get off me."

She takes a step back, eyes narrowing as she registers his tone, and he's walking away before she has time to regroup. He doesn't need Cuddy or anybody else to tell him he's being unfair, irrational, selfish, immature or frankly pathetic. He knows all this. He can't bring himself to care very much.

This whole thing would be a whole lot easier if his leg wasn't screaming in protest every time he so much as thinks of moving; he's double-dosing on Vicodin and still it isn't enough, and all he can think about is how much Wilson would love this if he knew. Psychosomatic pain, again, mind and matter colliding. It'd be beautiful if it weren't so goddamn painful.

As far as the five stages of loss are concerned, he's steamrolled past denial and forgone bargaining altogether in favour of anger, despair, and even, now, acceptance. He's beginning to resign himself to this reality, the constant sickening dread churning his stomach, the unfamiliar sense of emptiness and the throbbing in his leg, referred pain like he's lost a limb. Nonetheless something is creeping in around the edges, something he can't call hope but can comfortably label as denial, and it's never been in his nature to go down without a dirty fight.

Amber's apartment (_Amber and Wilson's_, he reminds himself bitterly) is every bit as coldly chic and uninspired as he remembers. She answers the door wearing another of Wilson's shirts, a button-down he recognises immediately.

"What are you doing here?"

"Selling cookies." He pushes through the doorway and she stands aside resignedly, arms crossed. "Do you actually own any clothes of your own?"

"If I'd known you were coming, I'd have dressed for the occasion," she deadpans. "Why are you here?"

"Wilson not home?" he asks, ignoring her question.

Amber sighs. "He's at work. Which you know. What is this, like you marking your territory?"

"Well, I figured he probably wouldn't appreciate me peeing on him. You, on the other hand, are marking your territory by aggressively wearing his clothing around the house."

"Yep. Got me. I saw you coming and ran to change into this, just to prove a point."

Looking around the apartment he can't see much that's changed since his last visit; there's no semblance of Wilson anywhere, none of his possessions scattered in the living room, no familiar posters on the wall or ridiculously specialised kitchenware on the countertop. Something about that makes him happier than it should.

"So, what's it going to be today?" Amber asks, leaning against the kitchen island in a poor attempt at nonchalance. "You're already bullied, bribed, I'm guessing blackmail's the next logical step? You going to snoop into my past, dig up some nasty little secret and threaten to expose me unless I ditch him?"

"Oh, I'm sure there's a goldmine of dirt worth digging. But no," House shrugs. "No, I just figured it was only right for you to know a few things, since you guys seem to be settling in for the long haul."

She raises an expectant eyebrow. "Go ahead. There's not a whole lot he hasn't told me. I know about the marriages, and that he cheated, a lot. I know he slept with a patient. I know you've been friends for years, I know he took care of you after your infarction and he's been taking care of you pretty much ever since. I know you were the main reason his marriages failed."

House narrows his eyes. "There's no way he told you that."

"I extrapolated."

"Right."

"And I know you think you're always going to come first for him."

He smiles then, almost laughs as he raises his eyebrows in mock defeat.

"Well, clearly this was a waste of time. I mean hell, he obviously trusts you enough to tell you pretty much everything." He pauses. "I guess he told you about the time he gave up his job for me. Both times."

Her gaze is steely but there's a flicker in her eyes, betraying her surprise.

"Yeah," he continues, sighing as though lost in reminiscence, "I've got a habit of pissing off authority figures. The wrong people. And Wilson always gets caught up in the crossfire, always has to fight. What did you think about him lying to the cops for me? They took his car, his money, his medical license...still, he wouldn't let up. He wouldn't."

He has to stop for a moment then, the memory of Tritter bringing a cold weight to his chest even now. He's not enjoying this half as much as he'd hoped, reiterating yet again all the things he's losing, the things he never deserved.

"You're pathetic," Amber says, visibly shaken. "All the times he's put his ass on the line for you, it's all just ammunition as far as you're concerned. Points on a scoreboard. Those things...only you could use that against him."

"Against you," he corrects. "He would have gone to jail for me."

The words hang in the air between them and he swallows, something hard forming for a moment in his throat. _He would have gone to jail._

Amber seems to struggle with herself, torn between the desire to know more and not wanting to give him the satisfaction of asking.

"No wonder you're so afraid to let him go," she says at last. His eyes level hers, laying down a silent challenge, daring her to compete, daring her to fight him and she looks back, defiant but a little less sure of herself. "I'm not leaving him."

House clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms as he resists the temptation to explode, to scream in her face that this is all wrong and she doesn't understand, can never understand what this is costing him, what Wilson is to him. Instead he pops the lid on his Vicodin bottle and tips one slowly, deliberately into his mouth.

"Why?" he asks at last, struggling to keep his voice level. "Why him? Why not just...go and find yourself some other poor unsuspecting sucker to leech off, somebody without all the baggage, the—"

"You may not have realised this," she interrupts quietly, "but guys like Wilson aren't exactly a dime a dozen. He's pretty special."

"I know." _Better than you ever will._

She regards him in silence for a minute, her expression unreadable.

"Close the door on your way out," she says at last, turning her back on him and retreating into the living room.

* * *

He doesn't remember when the idea comes to him. There's nothing logical about it, nothing terribly calculated, but the fact of Wilson and Amber's three-month anniversary looms large for days until he's beyond the point of rational thought. He finds out from Wilson's secretary that he's booked a "romantic getaway" for the weekend, first-class tickets to Long Island, a suite in some pretentiously named hotel with ocean views.

At five o'clock on Friday, forty five minutes before their flight is due to leave, he pours a finger of Scotch and calls Wilson.

"House?"

"I need you to come over."

"Now? This uh, this isn't the best time." He thinks he's being subtle. He'd told some barely convincing lie about a conference in Baltimore and House had played along, feigning disinterest as though the anniversary had passed him by altogether.

He modulates his voice a little, adds a slurring edge, the faintest hint of a tremor. "Wilson just...please."

He never pleads for anything, and for a moment he thinks he's gone too far, Wilson's seen through him.

"Okay, yeah. Of course. Give me twenty minutes."

As he hangs up he's already feeling like shit, Wilson's concerned tone ringing in his ears. Even for him this is low, but he's beyond caring now, beyond everything, beyond despair and acceptance and anger, even. The thought of Amber's face as she realises Wilson still puts him first, will always put him first when it comes down to it, is all he can think about, and maybe there's some wretched part of him that needs the reassurance too.

Wilson comes barrelling through the door minutes later, eyes wide and fearful.

"House—?"

His stomach twists with guilt but as Amber follows he pushes it aside, lets him face fall into an unruffled smile.

"House?" Wilson asks again, confused now and wary. "What—what's going on?"

"Hey guys," he greets, raising his hand in a mock wave.

"I thought you..." Wilson stares at him, hard. "What the hell is this?"

"It's exactly what I told you it was," Amber explodes. "James, he played you. He knew you'd come running, he's probably been planning this ever since he found out we were going away."

"You're going away?" House asks, feigning exaggerated innocence. "I had no idea. Special occasion, or—?"

"I thought something had happened," Wilson breathes. "You...you wanted me to think something had happened." His eyes narrow, confusino turning to something else, something raw and hard. House looks away. There's nothing about this victory that isn't hollow; Amber's fury is not nearly as satisfying as he'd expected and all he can see is Wilson, his wounded gaze and the way he's stiffened, his jaw clenched in anger.

Wilson turns and walks out without another word, leaving a deafening silence in his wake.

"Congratulations," Amber murmurs. "Is this what you wanted? To make him miserable, again? To prove you still could?"

House is silent.

"You're more selfish than I ever was, you know that?"

"_You don't deserve him._" He's almost surprised to hear the words out loud, not really conscious of having spoken.

"Yeah, that makes two of us," she spits, turning on her heel and following Wilson out.

He doesn't move much after that. He drinks five sixseveneight more fingers of Scotch, watches game shows and entertainment news and late night movies without really watching any of it, and tries to think of anything but soft brown eyes hardened in accusation.

* * *

The weekend passes in much the same way, a semi-conscious blur of pills and booze and whatever crap's on TV when he surfaces, and though he calls Wilson more than once he's unsurprised each time it goes to voicemail. When Cuddy calls, late on Saturday night, it's more of a relief than he'd like to admit.

"House?"

"Cuddy."

"Are you okay?"

He pauses. "Who's asking?"

"Uh, that would be me—"

"Did Wilson ask you to check up on me?"

Her silence tells him everything.

"He's worried about you. He's just about ready to kill you from what I could tell, but he still cares."

"Touching. Well, you can report back to Saint Jimmy that I'm just peachy."

"Yeah, you sound real balanced," she says dryly. "How much have you had to drink?"

"I'm a little surprised at your impartiality", he comments, ignoring her question. "After talking to Wilson I figured you'd be racing to give me a lecture on the errors of my ways."

She sighs. "What would be the point? Besides, I figure something's got to give. The whole situation's ready to blow up in your faces, at this point I'm just standing back and waiting for the dust to clear."

He doesn't tell her he's pretty sure something already has given. Maybe this is it, finally he's pushed too far, _pushed this till it breaks._

At work on Monday he corners Wilson on the way to his office.

"So. Good weekend?"

Wilson looks at him for a moment, then turns away, keeps walking. Undeterred, House follows. He's pretty sure he can't dig himself in any deeper at this point and even now, when Wilson can't look at him and there's a distance between them like never before, still there's something he needs here, some comfort in the sheer fact of Wilson's presence that he won't find anywhere else.

"Did you take that trip in the end?" he asks, his tone absurdly light. "Anniversary and all, fancy hotel, walks on the beach..."

Still Wilson keeps walking, his face a mask.

"I figure you guys had a lot to talk about. You and Amber," he clarifies, as if it's necessary. They've reached Wilson's office now, and House follows him in.

"Or I don't know," he shrugs, determined to provoke a response, any response, "maybe your relationship isn't all that much about talking." He flops down onto the couch as Wilson stands stiffly at his desk, rummaging through papers with no clear objective besides ignoring House. "That's cool too. Always had her pegged as a screamer."

Finally Wilson turns, and he couldn't look more weary, more resigned.

"What do you want from me, House?" he asks, raising his hands in surrender. House doesn't answer. He can't. He can say anything at this point, anything except everything that matters.

"I mean, you want Amber gone, that much I get. But why? Why does it suddenly bother you so much that I'm in a relationship again, finally? You've known me through three marriages, a few ill-advised affairs, now suddenly you're turning into Glenn Close at the first hint of something serious?"

"Things change."

Wilson rolls his eyes. "Yeah, things change. Great. _What_'s changed? What? I – I've spent way more time than is remotely healthy trying to figure it out and I don't get it. I don't."

"You can do better," House says blithely, a hundred other words sticking in his throat. He's staring at Wilson, willing him to hear something different, to see everything that surely, _surely_ has to be obvious, has to be written all over his face.

Or not. Wilson turns away again, his head dropping into his hands.

"House," he says, voice low and dangerously level. "Get out."

He doesn't close the door behind him.

* * *

That night, thirteen hours after Wilson kicks him out for what just might be the last time, he sleeps with Cuddy. Though they both know exactly what it means and more importantly what it doesn't, they make a damn good go of pretending otherwise at first. He shows up all downcast eyes and desperate, silent touches and when he kisses her she lets him, even kisses him back like this is it, like this is the answer to their problems, the ending they've been waiting for.

For a while he even manages to fool himself; as she moans and shudders beneath him it's almost easy, almost right, she's soft and warm and everything he should want, everything he's sure he used to want. He manages (almost) for the first time in weeks not to think of Wilson at all, until he's close to the edge and his mind begins to spin out of his control, flooding with all the things he's trying to avoid and he bites his lip as he comes, tasting blood, and says nobody's name at all.

He can feel her eyes on him afterwards, as he stares determinedly up at her off-white ceiling. When he finally looks back at her there's something unsettling in her gaze, a sense that she has understood something, seen something in him she should not have seen.

"So, what was that?" he asks bluntly, mostly to get that look off her face. "Moment of desperation? Pity screw for old times' sake?"

"Are those my only options?" Cuddy answers calmly, not rising. "You came here."

"Well, yeah," he smirks, widening his eyes for effect, "I didn't expect it to go this well."

She doesn't reply right away, lets the full crude impact of his words sink in. "Nice. I think I finally get it. This thing with Wilson – you're a lot more predictable than you'd like to think, House. You're acerbic all the time but you only get callous for no reason when you think you've got something to prove, or something to hide."

He looks sharply at her, the use of Wilson's name disquieting him even further; her eyes are boring right through him and the worst part of it all is the softness there, the compassion. The pity. He turns his back on her, reaching for the Vicodin bottle in his coat pocket. Prays she'll let it drop.

"Don't worry. I'm not about to tell him."

His hand freezes in mid-air. She turns out the light, settles into the covers, doesn't say any more. He lies in the dark for hours, not sleeping, trying not to think.

He leaves Cuddy's house before dawn, and as he slips into his shirt and leaves her snoring lightly it strikes him how familiar this seems, not routine but somehow predictable, even mundane. This is not the first time between them and though it's been years it changes nothing, later in the hospital they will be the same as they ever were and it's good to know, he supposes, that some things are still permanent.

He gets back to his apartment to find Amber sitting on the steps.

"You know, street corner's probably a better bet. Somewhere downtown, maybe near the bus depot."

"You ought to know," she retorts, standing up and brushing dust off her jeans. "Your bike was gone. Figured you had to come home sooner or later."

"Right. I'd invite you in, only…I have no desire to do that." He looks around for no particular reason. "Wilson know you're here?"

"Do you love him?" she asks, bluntly.

He almost laughs then; she doesn't really seem to expect an answer and he figures she doesn't really need one. As he pushes past her she grabs his arm, forcing him to face her.

"You're not the only one who needs him."

Her voice is brittle and it sounds, oddly, like another question, like there's something she needs from him. Slowly, almost gently, he shakes her off, and she puts her head down in a jerky kind of nod as she turns to leave. He has a strange impulse to call after her, some kind of parting shot, but his mind is blank and all he can do is stare into the distance long after she's gone.

The next day he receives a FedEx package. Inside is Wilson's McGill sweatshirt, neatly folded with a note safety-pinned to the collar.

_It'll fit you better._

* * *

He's somehow unsurprised when Wilson shows up at his door later that day, looking drained.

"I'm guessing this is down to you?"

House stands aside and lets him in, his mind racing.

"Amber left."

"As in...?"

"Left town, left me," Wilson clarifies flatly. His words hang in the air for a moment, silence ringing as House digests this. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"I didn't, actually," House mumbles almost under his breath. It feels irrelevant.

Wilson shakes his head like he's giving up on something, crosses slowly to the couch and sits down, his movements oddly deliberate.

"She give a reason?"

"No. No, not exactly." His voice is strained, every word measured. "She didn't really need to. Congratulations."

He moves tentatively to the couch, sits beside Wilson.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

"What I wanted—" He swallows, his mouth dry. "Right." It's true, of course. This is victory. He doesn't feel much like celebrating.

"You'd better hope I'm right about this," Wilson murmurs, his expression unreadable, and before the words have time to sink in he's leant in and pressed his lips against House's.

House freezes; his heart in his throat, he can't move, can't breathe. Wilson leans back, looking beyond confused and sees his eyes, the desperation there, whatever it is that's written in agonising lines across his face.

"House—?"

Wilson slips a careful hand around the nape of his neck, cradles his head, one thumb stroking along his jaw, and something shatters quietly inside him; he can breathe again, can clutch at fistfuls of Wilson's shirt and pull him close and crush their lips together like it's the last thing he's ever going to do. Wilson makes a sound in the back of his throat, raw and yielding as House kisses him fervently and he can't get close enough, his tongue pushes into Wilson's mouth and they're pressed together like this is the end, like the world is ending and they are all that remains, they are everything.

Once they break apart he can't stop shaking, his body no longer his own and he doesn't know what to do with this, this exquisite loss of control. Wilson seems to understand, pulls him in without speaking and House takes long, deep breaths against his shoulder, whispers _jesuswilson_ into starched fabric as a hand strokes slowly through his hair. Even after his heart stops pounding in his ears and he can see straight again he doesn't move, draws the moment out for as long as he can.

"So," Wilson murmurs eventually, breaking the long silence, "that's what changed."

House laughs, an almost hysterical outlet of breath as he lifts his head.

"Took you long enough."

There's a part of him that wants to ask why now, what happened to precipitate the light bulb moment, but he doesn't want to question it, still barely able to absorb the fact that this is Wilson, this is them and this is real, this is the threshold of something. Maybe it was never really a change at all, they've both always known on some level and everything that's come before has somehow been leading up to this. Maybe.

Their gazes colliding, he leans in again and none of the reasons matter any more, after days and weeks of working overtime his mind is finally, gloriously blank. Wilson's breath is warm against his cheek, and everything else can wait.


End file.
